The Meaning of Sacrifice
by arts and letters
Summary: Sherlock has risked life and limb to protect John Watson, sacrificing his freedom and safety to fulfill his last vow. When Sherlock comes back bruised and battered from his second exile, will John's love be enough to help Sherlock heal? And will John ever know the truth behind Sherlock's enigmatic farewell? (Original Title: I loved you once)
1. I Loved You Once

A/N: The title of this story and the text for the italicized line breaks come from a poem by the Russian poet Pushkin (same title). Full text posted at the end of this work. I really, really love this poem by Pushkin, and it felt a little sacrilegious using this amazing poem in this sort of frivolous story, but this story was inspired by the first line of that poem, and it did just fit.

This story contains spoilers for series 2 and 3.

* * *

_I loved you once_

It only happened one time, in the entirety of their friendship—but Sherlock has relived that memory over and over.

Wondered to himself—if he had asked for more—would he have gotten it?

If he had laid out the contents of his heart, would it have been enough to make John his?

What if, on that night—

When John came home—more than a little tipsy—after being dumped by his latest girlfriend—

Even now, Sherlock can't remember—Was it the teacher? The secretary? The widow? Does it even matter?

They're all interchangeable. Placeholders.

Anyway, on that night, Sherlock could tell from the heaviness of John's footsteps on the stairs—the fact that he threw his coat on the chair, rather than hanging it up—that the night had ended on a less than amicable note.

Clearly John was upset. Sherlock vowed to be on his best behavior.

"So, by your early and melancholy arrival, I take it things haven't worked out with your latest paramour?

Well, best is always a relative term.

John glared at him—but there was a brightness in his eyes, an unsteadiness in the lines of his mouth—that made Sherlock realize he had to tread carefully.

If only Mrs. Hudson were home. Emotions have always been much more of her area.

But she's not, so Sherlock asked himself, what would Mrs. Hudson do?

Yes, of course. If she were here, she would ask—

"Would you like some tea?"

No response. Sherlock continued, without thinking—

"I may have used most of the mugs in my mold experiment earlier this afternoon, but I could disinfect one if you'd like."

John didn't laugh or yell. Obviously they were in danger territory.

He needed to think.

Mrs. Hudson. What would Mrs. Hudson say next?

"Would you—" Sherlock nearly choked on the words—"care to talk about it?"

That was enough to get a wry laugh out of John.

And apparently enough to loosen up his tongue a bit—or maybe it was just the alcohol.

"We had nothing in common. I didn't really like her that much. So why do I care that she broke it off?"

"Well, maybe it's because—"

"That was a rhetorical question_,_" John interrupted, with a warning look.

Ah, yes. That should have been obvious. Probably for the best that John stopped him before he began to dissect John's psyche at length.

But now Sherlock really didn't know what to say, so he went with—

"Would you like some biscuits?"

"Sherlock, unless you went to the shops today, there is nothing edible in this house."

"Well, I could check Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. She usually leaves her flat locked, but I have a couple spare keys that I've 'borrowed' at one time or another and 'forgotten'to return."

"Let's just—can we just watch some crap telly and not talk?"

John always knows how to handle a crisis—even when the crisis is his.

Taking John literally, Sherlock just nodded, and sat down next to him on the couch. He normally would have sat in his chair, but it was currently being put to other uses.

And by other uses—well, Sherlock managed to stain it with some combination of human bodily fluids during a recent experiment, forgot about it until the stain set, and then when he remembered it again, chose to drag the chair downstairs for Mrs. Hudson to clean. He told her it was a jam stain. He can only imagine that her reaction might have been much more pronounced if she had known the true origins of that particular mark. Although really, he's never understood why some people are so squeamish about blood and guts. It's what we're made of after all.

At least John isn't like that, even though he does cross the line at human heads in the fridge. He's also not particularly tolerant of science experiments conducted with the aid of kitchen equipment.

Speaking of that particular aversion—when John gets up to go to the loo—which should happen very soon, based on John's predicted alcohol consumption and usual bathroom schedule—Sherlock should probably dash into the kitchen to do some damage control before John walks in and sees the collection of kidneys and livers in the fridge. Oh yes, and the _mold_—

But for the moment, Sherlock pushes those thoughts from his mind and focuses on the murder mystery—_typical—_that John has chosen for them to watch.

Approximately two minutes into the program—and it would have been one minute if he hadn't spent the first sixty seconds planning how best to remove the evidence of today's experiments—Sherlock has already figured out who had committed the crime. It took him an additional two minutes to catalogue all the flaws in the plan and another ninety seconds to decide on how he would have committed the murder himself.

He then showed super human restraint in managing to withhold his brilliant deductions for an additional ten—ten!—whole minutes, but after that, he couldn't let another second go by without sharing his conclusions and incisive critiques, and so he turned to his left, about to speak, and then he saw it—

John—John was crying—not audibly, but there was definitely water falling from his eyes—such a bizarre quirk that humans have developed—and all over that teacher!

Or secretary. Lindsay, was it? Lynette? Allison? Why is it that he can remember 243 varieties of ash and not remember a single one of John's—

Ah, yes, John, who is crying, here, on the couch, in Baker Street. He could pretend not to notice, wouldn't do to embarrass John—yes, he can just slowly turn back around to the TV, pretend this never happened—but then John looks up at him, makes eye contact—and it's too late now.

Mrs. Hudson, what would she do in this situation? Or maybe Molly, she's always been the cloyingly sensitive type.

Should he hug John? He's never been one for physical affection, but he certainly isn't opposed to it either, at least as long as it doesn't require exchanges of bodily fluid—so messy and unhygienic—but the angle is all wrong, they're practically on top of each other as it is.

Still, he has to do something, and John does look particularly miserable tonight, so Sherlock rotates his body, starts to lean in stiffly, and so does John—but then instead of a hug, they meet face to face, as John presses his lips against Sherlock's, and for a moment, Sherlock remains motionless.

He can smell—and now taste—the alcohol, as his mouth opens and normally that would be enough to repel him, but in this moment, all of his senses are flooded by John—his scent, the feel of their bodies close together—it's strange, makes him feel uneasy, but there's something comfortable and natural all at once—and although in all of his previous 'experimentation' he remained detached and unaffected by the physical interaction, for the first time, he found himself starting to let go, to stop thinking and immerse himself in the experience—in John

And then—suddenly—John breaks away, ducking out from under him wordlessly, so quickly that Sherlock falls face forward onto the sofa cushions, in a move that would have been comical under other circumstances.

A few seconds later, he hears a slamming of a door—upstairs, John's room—and then after that there's silence.

He feels dazed, as if he's just undergone some kind of emotional whiplash, as he lifts himself up off the couch, and looks around the room. Already his mind is desperately trying to categorize the new information, integrate the experience into previous data—John, roommates, attraction, sex, complications, experiments.

He doesn't know how long he spent sitting there, on the couch, staring into space—and he's not sure at which point he picked up the Union Jack pillow and wrapped his arms around it, clutching it to his chest—but when he does come back to himself, he decides it's time to retire to his room, concerned that if he stayed out in the living area John would refuse to venture out of his bedroom at all.

Since he can't sleep—and what's the point, anyway? He already slept a whole five hours yesterday—he lies in bed and continues to think—about John, and about what he has already started mentally referring to as "the incident."

It's true, what he told Mycroft, that afternoon in the palace. Sex doesn't alarm him, but it also never held much interest for him. It has always seemed like sleeping or eating—only even more voluntary. And messy—both literally and metaphorically.

Sex is just a simple urge of the flesh—a whim of the transport—that distracts his brain and should be avoided as thoroughly as possible.

And it's not exactly like things with John are any different. He doesn't particularly want to have a physical relationship with John. But, at the same time, the idea doesn't disgust him nearly as much as it would with other people.

After all, he likes John—and trusts him.

He finds it difficult to tolerate most people for extended periods of time, but being with John is like being alone—only better.

From the moment they met, he knew John was special. There was something about him—his outward, deferential demeanor, a layer of vulnerability, and then—at his core—the soldier, the anger, a tightly wound, barely caged emotion.

John always tries to act so normal, but he's not, never was, never could be.

Just like Sherlock. Only Sherlock gave up years ago trying to be anything other than what he is.

And maybe, just maybe, it's their differences, their sharp edges, that draw them together.

As Sherlock turns all of this over in his mind, he can't help but wonder—Is this what it's like, when people talk about "falling in love"? Is this how it feels? Is this how it happens? The combination of proximity, and chance—not fate, never fate—

But logically—yes, always, he has to return to the logic, won't do to get swallowed up into emotional flights of fancy—logically, does this make sense? Could it possibly work?

It had never seemed like a possibility before, so he had never given it much thought. But maybe, if John were interested—maybe it would be enough to make him stay.

How perfect that would be! No more school teachers or secretaries. No more John putting on his best jumper and putrid cologne to court yet another vapid conquest. No more worrying about the day when John finds someone worth his time, when he leaves 221B—and Sherlock—for good.

Maybe, maybe Sherlock could be enough for him, and it would just be the two of them, partners in everything.

And maybe Sherlock could learn to enjoy the more physical aspects of the relationship. After all, if it made John happy, if it made John stay—well, what's not to like about that?

What if John is upstairs, right now, thinking these very same things? Or worse, what if he's talking himself out of this? What if he's worrying that he's ruined everything? That Sherlock will be disgusted?

He had planned on waiting until morning, but what if it will be too late by then?

Realizing that time is of the essence, Sherlock quietly but purposefully makes his way up the stairs—skips gracefully over the creaky floor board—stalks silently towards John's room—where the door is mostly shut but not completely closed.

He pauses for a moment, on the threshold.

Quietly—using just the tips of his finger—he pushes the door open so that a sliver of John's room comes into view.

And he sees John there, slumped over uncomfortably—half lying down, half sitting up—but soundly asleep. Dead to the world.

Sherlock is relieved and disappointed all at once. Oh well, tomorrow, they'll discuss this. There's plenty of time. Tomorrow. After all, they have the rest of their lives.

He starts to turn away, but then he becomes aware of the slight chill in the air—always so hard to keep an old London apartment like this one warm—and John is just sitting there, still dressed, no covers over him.

Before he can stop himself, before he can question his actions, Sherlock pushes the door open more fully, walks in, goes to grab a blanket—but then he notices John's shoes, one half off, the other one still on completely—and after pausing for a moment to assess just how soundly asleep John is, decides that he's dead to the world, probably stage III—so Sherlock deftly loosens the laces, pulls off the shoes, and neatly sets them on the floor beside the bed.

Then, he stops, realizes that if John wakes up and sees the shoes so neatly arranged, he might realize that Sherlock had been the one to do this. After all, what drunk man would order his shoes just so before passing out fully clothed? Granted, John is particularly blind to such matters, but why risk it? So Sherlock takes one shoe, turns it on its side, and flops the other one upside down, a little farther away.

There. Much better.

Finally, he grabs a blanket, and carefully lays it over John's sleeping body.

Despite himself, he waits for a moment—watches John sleep—marvels at this state of utter relaxation—so far removed from the world.

Then, abruptly, he tears himself away, quickly closes the curtains, before leaving as quietly as he entered._  
_

He doesn't sleep at all that night—unsurprising, typical—and in the morning, driven by a feeling he chooses not to examine too carefully—he decides to make breakfast and tea.

For himself, of course, but while he's at it, why not make a little bit extra for John, as well? He might as well eat, given the massive hangover he'll probably have.

John comes down the stairs—much later than usual—looking haggard, eyes squinted against the light, even though Sherlock (thoughtfully!) closed the curtains against the morning sun.

John pauses partway in the room. Looks at the table, filled with food, mugs with tea—then looks at Sherlock—who keeps his face neutral—looks back at the table, and says, in a voice that is just a touch hoarse—

"You made food?"

"Breakfast, to be exact."

"For me?"

"Well, for myself, of course, but I made enough to share."

"Um, okay."

"If you're hungry, that is."

"Yeah, starved, actually. Are you going to have some, too?"

"Naturally."

"You might want to get another plate then."

Ah, yes. Sherlock is so unaccustomed to eating on a normal schedule that he had only gathered one place setting—for John.

He isn't particularly hungry, but it seems only polite, and sociable, to eat some of the food himself.

Since when did he care about polite or sociable?

Again, he pushes those thoughts aside, grabs a plate and silverware from the kitchen, and joins John at the table.

_perhaps that love has yet_

He had waited for days for John to say something, anything. After awhile, he started to wonder—did John forget about the whole thing? Could he really have been so intoxicated? Did he dislike the experience so much that he wiped it from his memory? Is that something that John is even capable of doing? After all, he obviously he lacks Sherlock's flair for manipulation of his mental faculties.

But no, that can't be the case. Sherlock can read it in the slight uneasiness he senses, especially when they cross into one another's personal space.

Still, he waits, decides it's best to let John come to him, on his own time. After all, John is used to being "the man" in a relationship. He'll want to make the first move. All Sherlock has to do is be willing to say yes.

_To die down thoroughly within my soul_

When it happens, though, it doesn't at all go the way Sherlock had hoped.

He can tell, before the words come out of John's mouth, what he's going to say. He can see it—John feels guilty. Not the kind of embarrassment of someone who did something they wanted to do but never intended to follow through on. This is another kind of guilt all together.

He knows what John will say, and he doesn't want to hear it, which is why, when John starts with—

"Sherlock, about the other night—"

He immediately interrupts with, "It's fine, John."

"I think we should talk about—"

"I really don't think that's necessary."

"I do."

"Why don't you have a chat with the skull? I'll be in the kitchen finishing my experiment."

"Sherlock, we have to talk about this."

"_Fine._" Sherlock pauses, puts on his best detached expression, and adopts his most clinical tone, before continuing. "You were drunk, and depressed, and I was there. And so we—" kissed felt like too intimate a word—"exchanged saliva for a few moments. We're both grown men. No one died or was permanently scarred. I don't think this needs to be discussed any further."

John has always been an open book. It doesn't take a consulting detective to read the emotions and thoughts in his facial expressions—and now, that look of relief—pure, unadulterated relief—on John's face reveals more than any speech could.

It's like a knife in Sherlock's gut.

But Sherlock is not like John. Certainly he can be expressive—theatrical, even—but he learned how to obscure his emotions from others very early on—and maybe it was never a matter of learning, but simply the way he was wired from birth.

It's so easy to hide behind his detachment, and of course, John doesn't suspect a thing, has no way of knowing what was extinguished by that short verbal exchange.

Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

_But let it not dismay you any longer_

After that incident, things in Baker Street returned to normal. Or as normal as they could ever possibly be.

Sure, it stung a little more, every time John went out on another one of his dates—

_Why her why not me what does this vapid woman have that I don't John doesn't even like plays so why would he go with her why is he putting on cheap cologne and a brand new jumper when we could be out solving crimes together why why why_

But Sherlock tries his best to bury those thoughts and feelings deep in the far reaches of his mind palace.

Besides, it's probably for the best. Sherlock could never be what John wants or needs. It was absurd to even consider it. No, it could never work between them. Anyway, that's not what Sherlock wants, not really.

Still, though, he knows that one day, it will happen. John will leave—he'll leave Baker Street, and he'll leave Sherlock.

Of course, Sherlock didn't know at the time, had no way of foreseeing how all of this would end, because when it happened—the _incident—_that was before the re-emergence of James Moriarty, before the trial, before the plan, that fateful plan that he and Mycroft engineered. All of this, their fleeting not-romance, all happened before The Fall.

_I have no wish to cause you any sorrow._

That phone call—if possible, it hurt Sherlock even more than John, as impossible as that may seem.

Because it did hurt John, Sherlock could tell, can remember even now the way he cried out—

_SHERLOCK_

As Sherlock plummeted to the ground.

Sherlock can still hear in his head, John's voice on the phone call, as he says—

_Stop it, stop it now_

And the entire time, Sherlock had to play the part—

_It's just a trick, a magic trick_

(There was a code in there, just for John—it's a trick, all a trick. A lie within a lie within a lie. One layer: This, the fall, it's a trick, a lie, a fiction. Sherlock hoped that maybe, just maybe, John could figure that out (he didn't). Then the second layer, the final lie: pretending that Sherlock never wanted more than this.)

Then those final words—

_Goodbye John_

He knew it would hurt John, but he had no idea it would crush him, not until that moment in the graveyard. When John uttered those words—

_One more miracle—don't be dead_

And it was all he could do not to grant John's wish right then and there.

But he couldn't—he had no choice. John's safety—that mattered most, and this was the only way, the only way he could do it.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

Goodbyes are always painful. Endings are always painful. But Sherlock didn't know that pain could run so deep.

_I loved you_

Two years. It took two years, and in that time, Sherlock went to the far reaches of the globe and back.

(For John, always for John.)

And then, when he came back, finally he came back, to London, to Baker Street, to John—he returned and the world he once knew had been turned upside down.

John was gone, long gone from Baker Street, in a new flat, and there was a new woman. But not just any woman.

He couldn't hate her—she was everything John needed and all that he wanted—clever, fearless, funny—female—and Sherlock could never begrudge John anything that brought him such happiness.

But that didn't mean that it was easy, seeing the way that John looked at her, especially in the beginning, when John had nothing but scorn for Sherlock.

John forgave Sherlock, of course, mostly, eventually. But it was never the same, not after that.

_wordlessly_

Sherlock spent two years alone—two long years in exile, but he made it through, promised himself, promised John—although John didn't know—that he would return.

Sherlock didn't die when he jumped off of that building, but he can't help but feel that something did. Something died, and maybe it was just that small part of Sherlock that still hoped for an end to the story that didn't involve John running off and getting married to someone else.

Maybe, maybe things could have been different.

But they aren't. There's no other ending but this one.

_without hope_

And so, when John asked Sherlock to be his best man, he tried to be the best Best Man he could possibly be, even when that meant threatening ex-boyfriends, folding serviettes and reading saccharine telegrams—even as every passing day chipped away at little pieces of his heart, even though he felt like a part of himself withered away and died.

But John couldn't know.

He wanted John to be happy. That was all that mattered.

He planned the perfect stag night—tried to watch their alcohol intake carefully, wary of what might happen if too much alcohol flowed between them.

_If he got too drunk, would he say too much? Would it happen again?_

Of course, John interfered, and they both ended up smashed, but other than that one moment—a hand on his knee—a warm, comforting presence—it all went perfectly.

Sherlock tried not to be disappointed, tried to squash that small part of himself that had been hoping for—

No, he can't think about it. He taught himself long ago not to want something that cannot be had.

And so he went to John's wedding and did everything that he was supposed to do, even though every moment felt like an ending, even though he couldn't stop himself from wondering—

_What if what if what if_

What if John had wanted this with Sherlock—what if they could have gone off together, what if things could have been like they were before—before The Fall, before Mary, before this all unraveled.

The romance wasn't important, of course. That would have been for John, only for John, only to make sure he wouldn't lack something that seemed to matter so much to him. The physical component would be for him as well.

All Sherlock cared about, all that he would have wanted, would be for the two of them to be together, in Baker Street, solving crimes, getting into trouble and digging their way back out, laughing and fighting and making up—and they would never be bored, Sherlock would never be bored again, never be alone, never be trapped in a prison of his own making, no more conversations with the skull.

That's all he wanted.

_By shyness tortured_

Sometimes he wishes he could go back in time, to the moment before their meeting, and stop himself from uttering those life altering words to Mike Stamford—

_Who would want me for a flatmate?_

But of course he wouldn't do that. He could never do that. As much as this hurts, as painful as this all is, he would never erase any moment of their time together, even the very worst ones.

_or by jealousy_

So he watches from the sidelines as they poses for pictures. He pretends not to be jealous when they hold hands underneath the table, or when John whispers something quietly into her ear. And he keeps his face impassive when Mary gives John a knowing smile and a subtle wink. He doesn't even cringe when he sees the glow on John's face as he watches Mary walk down the aisle.

If this is what John needs to be happy, then how could Sherlock possibly stand in the way of that. Even if he will never stop wondering—

_What if?_

But none of that matters, not anymore. All that matters is making it through this day and giving John everything that he wants (Mary, he wants Mary)

And all that he deserves.

_I loved you with such tenderness and candor_

Sherlock gives his Best Man speech, and he means every word of it—

_The best and the bravest man I have ever known_

He is, truly. Never could Sherlock have imagined a man like John Watson, never could he have expected to find a friend like this.

_The man you saved_

Because John did save Sherlock. He did more than save Sherlock—he changed him. Into a person who feels and cares, a person who now knows what it's like to be something other than alone.

Some days, some days Sherlock hates him for that. Hates the person he's become, hates that John helped make him this way.

But he would never change a thing, even if he had a choice.

Of course, he doesn't. He doesn't have a choice. He could never go back to being the person he was before John walked into his life.

John changed him, and he saved him, and that's why Sherlock made his promise, in front of everyone, with steady words that hide the storm underneath—

_"Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there—_

By the time his final deduction sets in—_three, all three of you—_there is static in his head—and then suddenly the static gives way to the refrain—

_It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over_

But he hides it well, comforts and congratulates them—watches them walk away—finds himself stranded on the dance floor—realizes there is no one left for him—

And quietly slips off into the night.

His last vow—he meant it, every word, even though there are truer words he could have said—but he didn't. And he won't

Still, they echo quietly in his head, haunting him and comforting him.

_I loved you, once—_

_And pray that God grants you to be loved that way again_

* * *

A/N: Hopefully you enjoyed this one shot. I've mostly done friendship fics, so this is the closest I've waded into the slash-y waters so to speak (though I've certainly read my fair share). I'm always torn because on the one hand I like to stick as closely to canon as possible, and on the other hand, I hate to see Sherlock all alone, and I really do love John and Sherlock together. Maybe in the future I'll try my hand at a Johnlock story with a happier ending.

Anyway, if you have a moment, please leave a comment! I'd love to hear what you thought of this story.

Oh, and if you're in the mood for more feels, I've posted a link on my author page to a youtube playlist where I've compiled some of my favorite fan made Sherlock trailers and videos. None of them our mine.

Full text of poem:

I loved you once; perhaps that love has yet  
To die down thoroughly within my soul  
But let it not dismay you any longer;  
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.  
I loved you wordlessly, without hope,  
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.  
I loved you with such tenderness and candor  
And pray that God grants you to be loved that way again

For some reason I can't get the link for this translation and the original Russian to copy correctly here, but if you search "Pushkin I loved you once Northwestern" it should be the first link that shows up. It's from a website called: From the Ends to the Beginnings: A Bilingual Anthology of Russian Verse.


	2. Dear John

A/N: I didn't originally plan on continuing this, but then this just popped up in my brain. It's set immediately following the first chapter of this story.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Dear John**

A punch in the gut.

That's what it feels like, the first time he walks into Baker Street after John has left the flat—and Sherlock_—_for good.

It feels dark and cold and empty, even after he turns on all the lights and starts a fire in the hearth.

The silence is oppressive, so he takes out his violin and starts to play. He wants to compose, but in his mind there is only static, and so he tries to play something else, anything else, but the sound of the strings—usually so soothing, enchanting—grates against his frayed nerves, and it's all he can do not to throw the instrument and bow into the fire.

He goes upstairs to the empty bedroom and starts to smoke, one cigarette after another, because, why not? John isn't here to complain, to chastise, to tell him what to do.

But he isn't doing this to spite John, not at all. He's just taking full advantage of his newfound freedom.

(He never knew that freedom could feel so much like a prison.)

Alone. He has always been alone—that's what he had before John, and that's what he has in John's absence.

And it's fine. It's all fine.

Better than fine, in fact. Now he can do whatever he wants, wherever he wants. Keep a collection of appendixes in the fridge? No problem. Continue his analysis of varying species of black mold? Sure, might as well.

Maybe he should start a list of new experiments to try, now that he has all this this time and space to explore.

He takes out pen and paper, but as soon as he has the pen in hand, ready to write, all the inspiration bleeds out of him.

Oh well—he never needed to write his ideas down before. He thinks better out loud anyway.

And yet, as he starts to pace and tries to speak, the sound of his voice feels wrong—he can hardly find the words, when he's speaking to the empty room, and even when he addresses the skull, all he can think is _not John, not John, not John_.

How can it be that he finds himself pining away for the presence of a man he only knew for such a short time? And it's not like John's dead. He's just not here.

And he hasn't been here for quite some time. But it was different before—now, with the marriage, and the baby—John is gone for good.

No, no he's not. He's still out there in the world—with his wife, his new family, far away from Baker Street, far away from Sherlock.

Alive—not dead.

But John as Sherlock's roommate—_Roommate John—_that person is dead.

And Sherlock is alone.

No, not alone—he has Mrs. Hudson, and the skull, and his violin, and the work. That's enough.

(Isn't it?)

It has to be. It always has been.

But maybe, maybe he could text John. Say hi. See how he's doing. Invite him over for tea.

He reaches for his phone, but then he sets it down again. No, John's probably busy. With his new family, his new life, a life that doesn't have anything to do with Sherlock.

Sherlock should give him his space. It will be good for him, for both of them, to have some space.

But he doesn't want space—and he feels like if he doesn't have some kind of outlet, he might just explode.

He reaches for pen and paper again, and then stops.

This is ridiculous. It would be more sensible to go on talking to the skull.

But then he sits down and starts to write anyway.

_Dear John,_

_Baker Street isn't the same without you. I never minded it before—the silence, the quiet, the emptiness. But now—it's desolate and cold._

_I wish you were here, for one more night, for one more day._

_Just the one._

_(And then maybe another and another and another.)_

_Do you remember the last night we spent in Baker Street, together, as roommates?_

_(Before the Fall, before I died and wandered the globe, and came back to you, only to find that you had left me.) _

_But do you remember what we did that night? You probably don't. You never have been very good at remembering, and besides, how were you to know that this night would have been different than all the others, that it marked the end? No, you had no reason to think it was special, to think that it was different._

_But I remember, and not just because it was the last. I remember all the nights we spent together in Baker Street. I could never forget them, even if I wanted to._

_(I don't. I hope they haunt me forever.)_

_But that night, the night before the Fairy Tale kidnapping, after Moriarty had been released, before my arrest—_

_You ordered takeout—Indian—and I said I wasn't hungry, but you ordered extra anyway. And you didn't complain—not very much, at least—when I spent the whole time stealing food off of your plate._

_You would say, "Do you want me to get an extra place setting?"_

_And I told you not to bother, but you handed me an extra fork and without a word, shoved the plate halfway between us._

_(Butter chicken with garlic naan and samosas. That's what we ate for our last supper.)_

_Afterwards, you cleaned up while I lay on the sofa, and then you came in and told me to budge over so you could sit down too, and you only rolled your eyes a little when I moved my legs only to throw them on top of you as soon as you sat down._

_(I still remember it—the intimacy, the comfort, the warmth of your body next to mine.)_

_I told you that I didn't care what we watched, but you picked a program you knew would keep me entertained and gave me ample opportunity to show off._ _After that was over, we watched one of those true crime shows, although you fell asleep halfway through, your head leaning back gently tipped over the back of the sofa._

_When the show was over, I nudged you awake, and you smiled sheepishly, and I sent you off to bed._

_Then, once you were gone, I curled up on the side of the couch that was still warm from your presence and committed every last one of those moments to memory, because I knew—even if you didn't—that the end was near._

_Of course, even if I had never left, even if I never fell, even if Moriarty had never come into our lives, this is always how it would have ended._

_After all, at heart, you're still a "normal" person. Maybe not quite as normal as Gavin Lestrade, but I always knew, deep down, that eventually you would find a woman worthy of your time, and then you would be gone._

_And you are. You're gone._

_I know you're happy, and that's all for the good—it's all that you deserve._

_Still, I miss you, and I hate that, and I hate you for leaving._

_No, that's not true. I could never hate you, not really._

_But I do hate how much I miss you._

_I can't help but wonder, is there something that I could have done to make you change your mind?_ _Maybe there was, maybe there still is, but even if I knew what that might be, I wouldn't do it._

_You deserve more than Baker Street—more than I—could ever give you, which is why I knew I had to let you go._

_But it doesn't make me miss you any less._

As soon as he places the period on that final sentence, Sherlock rips the paper out of the notebook, crumples it up, and tosses it at the trash. It doesn't quite make it, but he doesn't care enough to go put it back in properly.

Instead, he picks up his violin and begins to compose.

* * *

A/N: I hope you liked this bittersweet second chapter! I might eventually develop this into a longer AU story, but that's still a ways off.

If you have a moment to leave a comment, please let me know what you thought of this story! Thanks for reading :)


	3. Meditations in the Dark

A/N:First of all, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has followed the story so far, and an extra special thank you to the readers who have left such nice comments. I've really appreciated the positive feedback, and I've officially switched from a one shot/two shot to a full on WIP so get ready for a much longer story :)

This story follows canon up until the moment Sherlock gets on the plane. However, the whole thing with Moriarty never happened in this story's universe so in this version of events there was nothing to stop Sherlock from getting shipped off to Eastern Europe.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Meditations in the Dark**

For once, Mycroft was wrong. Utterly, completely wrong.

Strangely, Sherlock feels no sense of satisfaction. Usually, he would relish the chance to impugn his older brother's intelligence, to flaunt his failure of judgment, but now—

He just feels defeated.

After all, this particular miscalculation is very much to Sherlock's detriment.

* * *

_An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, six months_

That's what Mycroft said, that Christmas, before the fateful act.

But Mycroft had miscalculated, severely.

Maybe, for once, sentiment had gotten the better of him. Maybe Mycroft desperately wanted to believe that Sherlock could survive for six months, half a year, 183 days—give or take—but no, that wasn't the case at all.

Sherlock could sense it with an aching, bone deep certainty.

He wouldn't even make it 3 months.

* * *

Now, it was Sherlock's turn to be wrong. He had made it past three months, and into four, now closing in on five months, as far as he can tell.

But sometimes he thinks two years have passed and at other times it it only feels like two months and sometimes it feels like an eternity and then there are moments where it feels like it was only yesterday that he was safely ensconced in 221b Baker Street.

He held on for this long, and occasionally thinks he can hold for just a little longer, but those moments are few and far between now.

He's tired, and beaten, and he long ago gave up hope of anyone finding him.

For the first few long months he sustained himself with the hope of a rescue—that Mycroft would come and take him away back to London and tell him that all has been forgiven and it's time for him to come home. He would imagine how happy John would be to see him—and Lestrade, and Molly, and of course Mrs. Hudson—but it's the thought of John that sustained him for the longest.

He wanted to return, wanted another chance—a chance to say things, to do things—things that he didn't have the courage to do before.

But now, all he really thinks about is the end, and how very close it is.

* * *

It's dark and cold here in this abandoned cell. Days have blended into nights, and all he knows is exhaustion and pain and solitude. His captors—after beating him, torturing him, questioning him, bringing him to the brink of death—have abandoned him.

Any moment they could come back—or maybe they never will. Maybe they have just left him here to die.

They won't have to wait much longer, of that he's sure.

As Sherlock inhales, he feels the stabbing pain of 4—no five—broken ribs. He tries to flex his fingers, but the battered and bruised bones and torn muscles will barely budge, and when they do, the pain is excruciating. He long ago lost any feeling in his lower extremities. Each breath is a struggle, and more likely than not, he has significant internal bleeding.

Hypovolemic shock. That will probably kill him fastest. If that doesn't do it, sepsis will set in sooner or later, and of course there's dehydration and malnutrition.

The question isn't how this will end or whether it will, it's just a matter of how soon.

And as one second stretches into another as the painful, miserable moments slowly creep onwards, he can't help but think about home, about the people he left behind, about the life that he'll never get to finish. He's haunted by questions like—

_Will Mycroft blame himself?_

_Who will tell Mrs. Hudson? What will happen to 221b Baker street? Will someone else move in? Will she be left all alone?_

He wonders about all of them—about Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mum and Dad—and there are even times when he wonders about Anderson. But the one person he thinks about most—the one person he cares about most of all, of course, is John.

And so he also wonders—

_Is John happy? Is Mary watching over him? Was Sherlock wrong to trust her? Was he wrong to protect her?_

_And what if he hadn't? What if he had let Magnussen destroy her? What if he hadn't shielded Mary from the consequences of her past?_

He would probably be alive, in London, with John.

Instead, he's in a make shift prison, close to death, feeling the life bleeding out of him.

But he made a promise—a vow—to both of them. He gave his word to protect them, no matter what.

And that's exactly what he did, and that one fact—knowing that he was true to the word, until the very end—is the only consolation he has left to hold on to.

* * *

When he's not thinking about all the people he's leaving behind, sometimes he contemplates—

Is it worth fighting? Should he just give in?

But he already knows, in his heart of hearts, the answer to both of those questions.

_Is it worth fighting?_

No.

_Should he just give in?_

Yes.

* * *

He always believed that when he found himself on death's doorstep, he wouldn't be afraid.

And he's not, not really, not exactly. But he is cold and lonely and more filled with regret than he ever anticipated.

What he wouldn't give for one last moment—for one more chance—

But there are no more chances left.

He's not surprised that things would end like this for him. After all, he spent an entire lifetime chasing death and risking his life just for the thrill of it.

What does surprise him is how disappointed he is to be going.

He never expected to want more than this—more than the chase, more than the thrill, more than the high.

And yet, against all odds and against all reason, he did want more, much more.

And it was all because of John.

He wanted more, so much more, for the both of them—an entire life, an entire future—

But it would never be, and he's always known it could never be so. He was never destined to have a happy ending, and there was a part of him who knew that all along, even in the days where he held on to a vain hope for a destiny other than this one.

But he was a fool for hoping, a fool for dreaming, because in the end, the tale of Sherlock Holmes was always going to be a tragedy. After all, the one thing he needed, the one thing he truly wanted, was the only thing he couldn't have.

* * *

It's hard not to relive every fateful moment that led up to this one. Every choice he made, everything he said, everything he didn't say. It's impossible not to wonder if there had been another way, a way he was too blind to see, a path that would have meant being alive, with John by his side, in Baker Street. Together, the two of them, happy and safe.

But most often he relives their final parting, and those fateful words, how his heart started with—

_There's something I should say. I've meant to say always, and never have_

And how his traitorous, cowardly tongue finished—

_Sherlock is actually a girl's name_

Would it have mattered, if he had said something more than that? Could John read the words between those lines?

_(I) Sherlock (love) is (you) actually (always) a (have) girl's (always) name (will)_

Did John understand? Will he ever understand how much he mattered? Will he realize that Sherlock was willing to sacrifice anything and everything just to keep him safe?

Not that it matters, really, in the end. All that matters is that John is safe and happy.

Without Sherlock.

With Mary.

There are so many things he could have said, could have done—

But it doesn't matter. There's no other ending but this one.

And the end is so very close. He can feel it—the pull of the darkness.

This is nothing like the last time—the bullet, Mary—that was shock and surprise and pain—but he could fight it, he did, he survived, he made it—

(For John, always for John.)

But there's nothing left to fight for anymore.

Besides, he knew this is how it would end. He just didn't think it would come so painfully, so slowly and yet so suddenly.

* * *

Poor John already watched Sherlock die once, and he shouldn't have to go through it again.

Sherlock can still remember that first time, the wind in his hair, the feeling of weightlessness, the sense of falling, the air rushing past him, the moment of impact, the give of the airbag, and the entire time, his final words, echoing in his head—

_Goodbye John_

And John shouting, with that visceral scream—

_SHERLOCK_

And then, as Sherlock was sprawled on the pavement, covered in fake blood, people swarming around him, he heard those garbled, dazed words, the voice of a man in shock—  
_  
I'm a doctor—He's my friend__  
_

And John's touch—his last touch—as he felt for a pulse, found nothing, and staggered away, lost in grief.

Sherlock took comfort, then, in knowing that it wasn't the end, that he would come back from the dead and return to John.

But now—in this time, in this place—there's no going back.

No more magic tricks. No Molly, no Mycroft.

No John.

It's cold, dark, inescapable.

There's no fight, no hope, only the emptiness.

The end is near, and there's nothing left to do but embrace it.

And with that thought in mind, Sherlock closes his eyes and waits to sink into darkness.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger, but there's still a whole story left to tell, so don't worry, this isn't actually the end for Sherlock. I'll try to get the next chapter posted soon. Stay tuned!


	4. Hope in the Darkness

A/N: I know I left off the last chapter on a pretty terrible cliffhanger, so I've done my best to get this next chapter posted quickly. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Hope in the Darkness**

_Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, Can you hear me?_

The unfamiliar voice—when it finally registers—feels like it's coming from a million miles away—maybe a different plane of existence all together.

It's dark, and he's not sure why at first, until he realizes his eyes are shut. After several long moments, he finally finds the strength to open them. When he does the dim light of the dark room feels blinding, and he can barely make out the form of the man in front of him, dressed in army fatigues, rifle at his side, inches from Sherlock, but not touching him.

When he sees Sherlock's eyes open, the tension around his face loosens a bit and says, "Mr. Holmes, I'm Private David Winston, and we're under orders to extract you and return you to London."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that. Is this real? Is he dead? Dreaming? Insane?

"Can you stand up?"

Without answering, he tries to move his legs, realizes that he can't, recognizes that he can't feel any sensations in his lower extremities.

The realization should be terrifying, but he's gone past a point of feeling any emotional response, so he simply shakes his head.

The soldier just nods once, then stands up and walks beyond Sherlock's line of sight.

At first, hazy from the pain, hunger, trauma, blood loss, and exhaustion, he wonders if that was a test and if he answered wrong and if the soldier has decided to leave him behind.

But then, less than a minute later the soldier returns, followed closely by several medics, carrying a stretcher and a bag filled with medical supplies.

They speak softly to each other in short hurried tones, but there voices are clearer, slower, and amplified when they direct their words to Sherlock.

"We're going to take your vitals then get you patched up and on the stretcher so we can transport you back to London. You'll be home before you know it."

_Home_

What does that mean anymore?

Will he return to Baker Street?

Will they lock him away?

Will they just stitch him up and send him on another suicide mission?

Suddenly the certainty of imminent oblivion seems more appealing than the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

But then he remembers what home means.

_John._

He holds onto that thought as the pain intensifies when the men—despite their best attempts to be gentle—jostle him on the stretcher. He could almost forget how much everything hurts until that very moment, but now, it comes flooding back.

He gasps and the color drains from his face, and the medic by his side smiles apologetically.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. We'll be as gentle as we can, but the helicopter rides going to be a bit bumpy."

The progress is painfully slow as they move him out of his holding cell, and the minute they get outside, he takes in a deep breath—as deep as his broken ribs allow him—but then a moment later he's in the helicopter, with an oxygen mask over his face, a blood pressure cough on his arm, and an entire team of medics surrounding him.

Now, he can hear it, the thumping as the propellers beat the surrounding air. There is a knot in his stomach as the helicopter pushes off from the ground, and every jerking movement makes his battered body hurt just that much more, and so, with no other option, he closes his eyes, and tries to lose himself in his mind palace.

* * *

He must have fallen even further into his mind palace than he intended because the next thing he's aware of is a sharp jolt—landing—and then the sound as the engine is shut off and the chopper's motions cease.

Almost immediately, he's carefully carried out of the helicopter and onto the tarmac. At the edge of his vision, he can see a plane—a small jet. The medic follows his line of sight and says, "We're on orders to take you straight to London."

That word—London—is so welcome that it takes his breath away, but before he can begin to formulate a response, he hears, "You have a long flight ahead of you, and you're in rough shape, so we're going to put you under twilight sedation until we land."

There are times when he would welcome the peace of a nitrous oxide induced rest, but now, all he wants is to stay conscious. A part of him fears that he still might slip away, and it would be too much to bear to disappear now, when he's so close to home, so close to London, so close to John.

But before he can raise any objections, there is a mask slipped over his head, and he has no choice but to breathe in deeply, once, twice, three times—

And then the rest is just an empty space in his memory.

* * *

When he finally comes back to consciousness, he's already in another ambulance, and he can see the plane through the open doors. It's daylight now, so he knows several hours have passed, although how many, he couldn't say.

All of the sensations—the light, the fresh air, the colors, the people, the sounds, the pain—are too much for him, and he desperately wishes they would put him back under again, but before he can beg them to put him out of his misery, someone comes into his line of sight, casting a shadow over his stretcher.

And while the world is too hazy for him to make out facial expressions, when the figure speaks, he has no trouble identifying the familiar voice or making out the words—

"Welcome home, brother dear."

* * *

A/N: I hope you liked this most recent chapter! It's mostly a bridge between the previous chapter and the next, so much more will happen in the fifth chapter. I know we haven't seen nearly enough John in this story so far.

I've been so pleasantly surprised by the positive response to the last couple chapters, and I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read the story, and I'm extra grateful to those readers who have taken the time to leave a comment.

I can't make any guarantees about when I'll get the next chapter posted, but I'll do my best to get it up reasonably quickly. Stay tuned!


	5. The Paradox of Wanting

A/N: As some of you may have noticed, I've changed the title of this story from "I loved you once" to "The Meaning of Sacrifice." This story started as a one shot, and the original title for this story came from that first chapter. However it has since turned into a full fledged WIP with many chapters ahead of it, and I decided to change the title to something that I felt would better fit the whole of the story.

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Paradox of Wanting**

It's one of the peculiarities of the human condition to want something so desperately and then immediately spurn it the moment it is yours.

At least, that's the conclusion Sherlock has come to as he lies in this hospital bed, hooked up to a million different monitors, staring at the bland beige ceiling, wishing to be anywhere but here.

For those many months—months that felt like an eternity, an eternity spent in hell—all he wanted was to be home again. To return to London, to home, to John.

In his darkest moments, he prayed to a deity he didn't believe in, pleading, begging—

_I would do anything, anything at all, just to see him one more time, just to be with him one more time, just to have one more chance, one more day, one more hour_

But he never believed his wishes would be answered.

And he never considered what kind of deal with the devil he was making.

If he had been given a glimpse into this future, if he had been offered this choice, who can say what path he might have chosen?

During those many lonely nights, he told himself he would do anything to be home again, that he would give anything, to have that.

But now he is here, in London, in this hospital bed, and all he can wish for is oblivion.

* * *

For days after he first returned to consciousness in this sterile room, Sherlock refused to speak.

Mycroft questioned the doctors, over and over again—

_Are there any signs of brain damage?_

_Are there any other tests you can run?_

_Are you sure you did the tests correctly?_

_Did you adequately assess the activity in his prefrontal cortex?_

_Is there something else that you can try?_

And the doctors reassured Mycroft over and over again that there was nothing else they could do. They said some platitudes about trauma and giving it time and other nonsense, up to and including offering the services of a psychiatrist, which Mycroft thankfully dismissed out of hand.

Sherlock heard all of these exchanges because they happened on the other side of the door, and the walls of this hospital were paper thin, but none of it was enough to stir him from his silence.

He probably should have taken pity on Mycroft, uttered a few sarcastic syllables just to ease his brother's concern, but he was in no mood to ease anyone's suffering when he was this unfalteringly miserable himself.

What finally moved him to speak, though, was the moment when Mycroft entered his room and said, "I have notified your former landlady, Mrs. Hudson, of your return, and I have sent a car to fetch her and bring her here this afternoon. You have made it more than clear that you have no interest in engaging with me or your many doctors, but I hope that for her sake, if not for yours, you will reconsider your silence when she arrives."

With those final words, Mycroft left the room, and Sherlock silently cursed his older brother's skillful machinations.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson arrives that afternoon, she instantly bursts into tears at the site of Sherlock laid out in the hospital bed, and Sherlock doesn't have it in his heart to respond to her concern with silence.

In a somewhat hoarse voice, he says, "It's not nearly as bad as it looks."

Every word of that sentence is a lie, but it seems to ease Mrs. Hudson's concern enough for the tears to stop, and for that alone he decides a lie is infinitely better than the truth.

Mrs. Hudson does not stay for long. Mercifully, Mycroft comes in a short while later to usher her out to a waiting car.

Before leaving, Mrs. Hudson admonishes Sherlock to eat plenty of biscuits and listen to the doctors, and she promises to visit him again in a couple of days.

Mycroft remains in the room after Mrs. Hudson had departed, and as soon as she is gone, he says, "I hope the two of you had a nice chat."

"You've made your point more than clear, Mycroft."

"Have I?"

"Yes, I have given up my vow of silence."

Then, Sherlock adds, bitterly, "Not that it matters."

"I would say it matters a great deal. We have quite a lot to discuss."

"You mean about my _adventures_ in Eastern Europe?"

"You must know that is the least of my concern. As always, your well being is my foremost concern."

Sherlock scoffs. "And that's why you sent me out on a suicide mission?"

"What other choice did I have? What else was I supposed to do after you shot one of the the most powerful and well connected men in the whole of the Western World in front of fifty special agents? Would you have preferred I let them lock you away for the rest of your days?"

"Anything would have been better than this."

"This was the path you chose, Sherlock."

"What choice did I have?"

"You could have left Magnussen to me."

"I had to protect John."

"Magnussen posed no threat to John."

"He threatened Mary, and what life could they have while he was still free to ruin them?"

"You could have come to me."

"What difference would that have made?"

"All the difference in the world."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but then just like that, all his anger and righteousness fades, and all he feels is tired and empty.

Mycroft immediately senses this change in Sherlock, and the expression on the older man's face shows that he immediately regrets the direction that this conversation has taken.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. None of that matters now."

"Nothing matters now."

"You can't possibly mean that."

"My life is forfeit. I'm useless, wasted. I would be better off dead."

"Come now, the doctors said—"

"The doctors said that with time and physical therapy, I _may_ regain full use of my legs."

"Exactly."

"And what good is that?"

"They said there was a good chance."

"When I asked them for a percentage, they wouldn't answer."

"They're doctors, not statisticians."

"How can I live—how can I work—if I can't move? How will I stay sane—what will I possibly do with myself—"

Sherlock realizes that he's close to losing his composure completely, so rather than continuing to speak, he shuts down completely.

Sensing that they will get no further with this current line of discussion, Mycroft says, "I'll be by to see you tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything."

And then he shuts the door, and Sherlock is once again alone.

* * *

The next day, Mycroft comes to the hospital early in the morning, and although Sherlock can hear him in the adjoining room, making phone calls, shuffling around his papers, Mycroft leaves Sherlock to his own devices, until later in the afternoon, when he comes in and says—

"Sherlock, there's someone here to see you."

"Not Anderson again?"

"No, I already sent him away earlier today."

"And he left willingly this time?"

"I may have made a few pointed threats, but I also told him that he could take word to your little fan club that you are safe and in good health."

Sherlock scoffs at that final sentiment, and Mycroft smiles sadly. "Would you have preferred I tell the truth?"

In an unusual moment of honesty, Sherlock says, "I only wish that were the truth."

Mycroft moves closer to the bed, almost reaches out to Sherlock, and then pulls away again. Instead he says, "I know, Sherlock. But, although this isn't your strong suit, I implore you to be patient. I have all the best doctors—"

"Spare me the sunshine and rainbows speech, Mycroft. Save the false optimism and useless platitudes for someone stupid enough to believe them."

"I would not lie to you—"

Sherlock clears his throat, and looks at Mycroft sharply, so Mycroft corrects himself. "I would not lie to you about _this._"

Sherlock starts to fire back, but instead he gives up, and says, "Please just go away, Mycroft."

"As you wish. But as I mentioned earlier, there is still the matter of your visitor."

"Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you. Is it Mrs. Hudson again?"

"It's John."

"Did you tell him I was here?"

"How could I not? Besides, your former landlady certainly would have told him even if I hadn't."

Mycroft waits to see if Sherlock has anything to say, but when he is only met with silence, he asks, "Shall I invite him in?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock says, "No."

"Sherlock—"

"I don't—I can't—not today, I can't see him yet—he can't see me like this."

"Sherlock, of all people for you to hide away from, John Watson is the last—"

Suddenly, Sherlock shouts, "Piss off—just go away, and don't come back."

"Is that the message you'd like me to relay?"

"No, just—tell him that I'm sleeping or drugged or in a coma."

"I don't think that will be enough to keep him away."

"Fine, tell him that I'm too delicate to receive visitors—that it would be dangerous to my health."

"Are you absolutely sure you don't wish to see him?"

"Yes."

"As you wish. I will be by to check on you later."

"Don't bother."

But Mycroft does not acknowledge Sherlock's final words, because he's already left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

Mycroft makes his way down the hall towards the waiting room at an uncharacteristically slow pace. He is not particularly looking forward to this conversation, but he sees no choice other than to abide by his brother's wishes, at least for the time being.

And that's why, when he enters the waiting room, and he sees the eager and apprehensive expression on the face of one John Watson, all he says is, "John, a word please."

John follows Mycroft without question into an empty room, where they can talk with at least some pretense of privacy.

When John enters the room, Mycroft beckons him to sit, but John refuses, asking instead, "Can I see him?"

"Not today."

"Mycroft, please—"

"Sherlock is still in poor health, and too much excitement—"

"For Christ's sake, Mycroft, I'm a doctor, and Sherlock is my best friend. Don't lie to me like I'm Anderson."

Mycroft gives a tight smile, but he pauses, considering his words carefully, before saying, "Sherlock is not in good health. We barely managed to get him out alive, and even though we succeeded in that respect, there were some—shall we say, _complications_."

"What kind of complications?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Not at liberty to say? Bloody hell—"

"These are Sherlock's wishes, not mine, And for the time being, we are both bound to respect them."

Looking defeated, John says, "Can I come by tomorrow?"

"Of course, although I can make no guarantees that Sherlock will be receiving visitors tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that."

"Yeah, I get the picture, but I'm going to come by anyway."

"I would expect nothing less."

He looks at Mycroft carefully, unable to determine if that sentiment is hinting at approval or scorn, but Mycroft's countenance is as inscrutable as ever.

John turns to go, but before leaving he asks, "Please, can you at least tell me if he's going to be okay?"

"There is no easy answer to that. Physically—yes, he should be fine, with time and treatment. But beyond that, only time will tell."

John lets out a sigh and says, "Okay, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Dr. Watson. Give my best to Mrs. Watson."

John tenses, but he can't read anything unusual in Mycroft's expression, so all he says, is "Sure, I will," and then he heads out the door.

As soon as John is gone, Mycroft closes the door so that he is alone once more, and then he sinks into the chair, and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this latest chapter! I'm sorry for the lack of John/Sherlock interaction, but I promise it's coming in the next chapter. And, as you may have gathered, this story is a bit of an angst-fest, but we'll also be getting plenty of crime solving, humor, and grappling with the progress of John and Sherlock's relationship.

If you have a moment, I would really love to hear what you thought of this latest installment!


	6. A Bittersweet Reunion

A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates. Hopefully the content of this chapter will make up for it. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6: A Bittersweet Reunion**

Early the next morning, John walks into the waiting room at the hospital. Almost immediately, Mycroft emerges from around the corner, and says, "I believe it would be best if we spoke somewhere more private."

John simply nods, and follows Mycroft down a very long hallway, to an empty room.

Before Mycroft even opens his mouth, John knows what he's about to say. "He still doesn't want to see me?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Fine, he _won't_ see me?"

"My brother is very stubborn—"

"No shit."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John's language, but then continues without further comment. "And he is in a great deal of pain—both of the physical and—well, other varieties."

John lets out a very tired sigh and fights the urge to curse again. "Mycroft, if he won't agree to see me—at least tell me what happened. You can't leave me in the dark like this."

"Very well."

John is shocked by the speed of Mycroft's acquiescence, although Mycroft immediately adds, "On one condition."

"Sure, what?"

"I would like to know the status of your marriage to one Mary Watson. Or is it Morstan again? Has she perhaps taken on an entirely new identity by this time?"

"No—we—we're separated, but I've spoken to her. We both needed space. Things have just—after everything that happened with—"

John stops, fights to regain his composure.

Mycroft nods, a signal that he knows what John is about to say, and John is so grateful to avoid saying those words that he doesn't even bother to wonder how Mycroft has gotten his information.

"We drifted apart. We were so happy at first. Mary was the best thing—well the best thing other than Sherlock—to ever happen to me. But things were so difficult—"

"It's hard for me to imagine anyone more difficult than Sherlock."

John smiles, fondly. "No, he's hard to top. But things were difficult in different ways. I don't know—something was missing."

"Or perhaps someone?"

John looks at Mycroft sharply, but he doesn't answer the question. Instead, he says, "Anyway, we decided to take a break. Mary stayed in our flat, so I've been staying on Mike Stamford's couch."

"Is that where you stayed last night?"

"Ah, no."

Mycroft gives John one of his infuriatingly knowing looks.

"Really, you can tell where I slept last night? What, is it the way my hair is mussed? Or should I just assume that you have cameras everywhere?"

"I have cameras many places, but that's neither here nor there. However, I would have been happy to put you up in a hotel, if I had known you would be spending the night in a parked car."

"So you just figured that out based on my shirt or something?"

"Nothing that clever. I confess to having an inside source. My security alerted me to the situation. I assured them that you were not a threat, of course."

"Thanks for that, I guess."

"Shall I make a reservation for you tonight?"

"What? Oh, no. I—in case anything happens, I want to be here."

"Ah, I see. Well, I can have the staff arrange a private room on this floor for you to use as long as you like. It's not what I would consider comfortable, but I suppose given your military background, you've probably had far worse accommodations."

"Yeah, at least no one will be shooting at me here. Although trouble does always seem to find Sherlock."

"I would say it's more a matter of him finding it. Although lately—but that's not a concern right now. This building is heavily secured."

"Good. That's good."

John pauses, waits for Mycroft to make the first move, and then finally says, "So how bad off is he?"

Suddenly, Mycroft looks very, very tired. He sinks into a chair, before quietly saying, "Sherlock received numerous injuries, but the worst of it, as best we can tell—he suffered a traumatic compression of the lower spine, at the T10 vertebra and because of this—"

"He's paralyzed."

"Yes, from the waist down."

At that confirmation, John sinks down heavily into the chair across from Mycroft.

Neither of them can bear to make eye contact, so John directs his next question to the floor.

"Is it partial or full?"

"Neither."

And now John looks up. "I'm a doctor, Mycroft. I know how this works."

"I do not doubt that. But as ever, with my brother, matters are not so simple."

"So there's no sign of trauma, but he can't move?"

"There are many signs of trauma, of the physical and mental varieties. After what he went through—I did my best to keep an eye on him—so to speak—while he was abroad, but at some point he went off the radar, and by the time we found him again, he was half dead. I shudder to think what might have happened if we hadn't been able to reach him—"

Mycroft grimaces, and then shakes his head slightly, as if to erase the dark thoughts. Then he continues, "It is clear that of his many injuries, there was some manner of traumatic compression of the spine, but his doctors have yet to determine any concrete physical cause behind his continued paralysis."

"It's possible that there's some injury the scans aren't detecting. Have you gotten a second opinion? Maybe I could take a look?"

"You are welcome to peruse the data for yourself, but I assure you, I have sought a second, a third, and a fourth opinion from the best practitioners in the UK and the continent."

"And?"

"Everyone has their theories, but nothing conclusive, and Sherlock has not been particularly—shall we say—cooperative."

"No surprise there." John pauses, then adds, contemplatively, "Have you considered—"

"Have I considered that there is in fact no physical basis for Sherlock's paralysis and that it is instead a mental response to the trauma he's experienced?"

"So you have considered it?"

"Of course, but alas, there is no way to know for sure, especially with Sherlock being his usual difficult self—only more so."

"So what's the prognosis?"

"The doctors believe that with time and physical therapy, there's every reason to believe that he'll regain use of his lower limbs. It is clear that there is no permanent damage to the spinal cord, so eventually the situation should resolve itself."

"But for now—"

"Yes."

"I can't even imagine—he must be—Jesus."

"Yes, as you are well aware, this news has been quite a blow to someone like Sherlock, who thrives on action and excitement—not to mention independence."

"Christ, I wish—"

John trails off.

"Yes?"

"I wish I could see him."

"There might be a way."

John's head snaps up at Mycroft's words.

"How?"

"With your permission, I might bring certain things to Sherlock's attention—"

John looks at Mycroft sharply. "What things?"

"All Sherlock can think about right now is his own misfortune. He does not want to be a burden, and his pride is preventing him from opening up to you."

"What does that have to do with—"

"I believe that if he were aware you were suffering also, it might make him more amenable to see you."

"I don't want to manipulate Sherlock into seeing me."

"Trust me, I wouldn't do this if I didn't believe it to be in Sherlock's best interests."

"In that case—"

Before John finishes his sentence, Mycroft says, "I'll go speak with him now."

And just like that, Mycroft is out the door, leaving John alone in the empty hospital room.

* * *

When Mycroft enters his brother's room, Sherlock immediately asks, "Did you send John away?"

"You should know it wouldn't be so easy."

"He's still here then?"

"He never left."

"What do you mean?"

"He spent the night on the premises."

"And you let him?"

"Well, he's hardly a threat to your safety. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Is that your way of encouraging me to see him?"

"Would it matter if it was?"

"No."

"In that case, I will not give you my opinion on the matter."

"But?"

"Why do you assume—"

"There always is."

"_But_ I think you should consider that you are not only hurting yourself by your refusal to see your friend."

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "John has more than enough on his mind with Mary, the baby—"

"There is much you are unaware of. You are not the only one who has suffered over the past six months."

Sherlock asks, sharply, "What happened?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"As if you don't already know."

"What I know is that you are not the only person who is in a great deal of pain."

"I would have known—You would have told me if John something had happened to John." Getting more agitated, Sherlock continues, "You said you would watch over him—keep him safe—"

Calmly, Mycroft interrupts. "No, it's nothing like that, but certainly you know that many of the worst hurts are invisible."

"You're being even more tiresome than usual. Stop speaking in riddles."

"If you'd like to know more, you'll have to speak to John."

Sherlock is once again staring at the blanket on the hospital bed, and so Mycroft waits, for many minutes, but when Sherlock doesn't respond, Mycroft turns to leave.

He is over the threshold, about to close the door, when he hears Sherlock say something quietly.

Mycroft turns around and says, "I didn't catch that."

Without looking up, Sherlock says, "I'll see him."

"I'll send him right in."

* * *

A few minutes later, there is a soft knock on the door, and then John turns the knob and walks in without waiting for a response.

Even though he prepared himself for the worst, John is still taken aback by the sight of Sherlock in the hospital bed, battered and bruised, unnaturally pale, and shockingly thin.

"Christ, Sherlock. You look terrible."

With a ghost of a smile on his lips, Sherlock says, "You should have seen the other guy."

Despite himself, John returns Sherlock's smile with a faint one of his own. "Was there only one?"

"No."

John sees the shadow fall over Sherlock's features, so he quickly changes the subject.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, never better."

"Are you lying to me? Or did you just figure out how to re-program that morphine drip?"

Sherlock shrugs and says, "Both."

Then Sherlock asks, quietly, "So, what did Mycroft tell you?"

"Not much, other than some highlights of your medical status."

"So you know that I'm a cripple."

"He said that it's not permanent."

"It could be."

"It sounded like the doctors were fairly confident—"

Suddenly, Sherlock shouts, "I don't want probably and I don't want _eventually_—I want now, right now."

When Sherlock is done voicing his anger, John says, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because I know how hard this must be for you."

"You have no idea."

"I—"

"Maybe you would be fine with this—maybe this would be okay for you—but not for me. I'm trapped, in this room, in this body. I'm useless and damaged and wasted, and I don't want your pity."

"You're right. I'm not you, and I've never had anything like this happen to me. But I know you, Sherlock. I know you well enough to know how hard this must be."

Sherlock doesn't say anything in response. He just stares at the floor in front of John's feet.

After a few moments of silence have passed, John asks, "Do you know how long you'll be staying here?"

"No, although Mycroft might."

"You haven't spoken to him about it?"

"I avoid all conversation with him whenever possible."

"What about your doctors?"

Sherlock shrugs.

Speaking more to himself than to Sherlock, John says, "Mycroft must be beside himself."

Sherlock immediately bites back, "Why?"

"I'm sure he couldn't possibly imagine—when he gave you this assignment—"

"Trust me, he knew exactly what he was doing."

"He knew and he didn't tell you that he was sending you off on some mission impossible—"

"Don't be so dramatic."

"This isn't me being dramatic, Sherlock. You almost died. And you're telling me that Mycroft arranged this without warning you—"

Quietly, Sherlock says, "I knew."

"Wait, what?"

"I knew where Mycroft was sending me and why. I knew everything."

"How could you know and not tell me?"

"It was better this way. And besides, I did tell you, in a manner of speaking."

John pauses and goes back to his memory of that day, to the words that were spoken.

_The last conversation I'll have with John Watson_

_Some undercover work in Eastern Europe_

_Six months, my brother estimates_

_After that, who knows?_

And just like that, the reality hits him.

"When you said lasting 6 months—"

"Yes."

"You meant, you would only last 6 months, not the assignment."

Sherlock nods.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock, how could you do that to me? How could you walk off to a death sentence like that—"

"I had no other choice."

"How could you—you almost died, and you didn't even say goodbye—you didn't even—"

"I tried."

"Oh really? That was you trying?"

"Yes, and you barely even noticed! All you cared about was your wife and that bloody baby. "

"Emma."

"What?"

"That's what we were going to name her."

"Were?"

John nods.

"What happened?"

"I—I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh—so it's not okay for me to keep my own confidence, but if John Watson wants to keep things all locked in, that's no problem at all."

"Please, Sherlock, just leave it."

"You know I can't do that."

"Of course you can."

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but the minute you leave the room, I'll just ask Mycroft."

"Can't I have a little bit of privacy? Is that really so much to ask?"

"You're the one who practically begged to be let in here! What, now that I'm a cripple, you're done with me?"

"No, Sherlock—that's not it at all. It's just—"

"Something happened."

"Yes."

"To Mary?"

"No—well, we don't know exactly. Sometimes these things—they just happen."

"Birth defect?"

"Edwards syndrome."

"Trisomy 18."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock looks vaguely embarrassed. "When I found out you and Mary were having a baby, I may have conducted a little research on the matter."

"You researched birth defects?"

"Among other things."

"So are you telling me you were reading child psychology books too? Googling the pros and cons of attachment parenting?"

Sherlock looks away, but doesn't respond.

Despite himself, John starts to laugh.

"Is it really so funny?"

"No, not at all. It's actually quite—"

Sherlock sends John a warning glare, so John stops himself from saying _sweet_. Instead, he says. "Thank you."

Sherlock shrugs, and then he waits, until finally, John starts to share.

"It's more common with older mothers and especially when the baby is a girl. Usually they catch it sooner, but with everything that happened—"

"Everything?"

"Yeah, with Mary, and you—"

Sherlock flinches, almost imperceptibly.

"I didn't mean—I'm not blaming you. Jesus, my wife—Mary shot you. How could that be your fault?"

Sherlock can't help but notice John's mid-sentence correction, but he doesn't remark on it, simply filing it away for later consideration.

John takes a deep breath. "By the time we went in for the scan—the ultrasound, it was—there was nothing to be done. Well, they couldn't have done anything anyway, but if we had known sooner—"

"You might have been able to termin—"

"Yeah."

"So it—she was stillborn?"

"No, worse than that."

John didn't expect to tell Sherlock this—he didn't expect to tell anyone about this, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop.

"Mary—it was worse for. She went through 24 hours of labor, and the baby—Emma, she wouldn't even make it that long."

He didn't intend to say any more but something about the way Sherlock just waited, staring at him intently—with concern, but not pity, and without useless words like _how terrible_ or _what a tragedy_ or even worse _she's in a better place now._ Just knowing that Sherlock is there to listen is enough.

"We knew, there was nothing that they could do, and so we told them not to—that we didn't want—"

"No extraordinary measures."

"Yeah—they said that there was nothing that could save her, and I didn't want her to suffer.

"She was so small, and—and there were so many things wrong with her, so many problems—but she had this perfect little nose. And I loved her. She was my daughter—_our _daughter."

John takes a deep breath, before continuing, in a rough, hoarse voice—

"All I could do was hold her, while she struggled to breathe, while she took her first and last breaths. All I could do was hold her, and tell her that I loved her—that we loved her—that we would always love her. I wish—I wish I had the time to tell her about the nursery we made for her—that we decided on yellow walls, because Mary didn't want pink. We picked out a stuffed elephant for her first toy. We had already started to talk about moving to a bigger place, out in the country, where we would have a yard. Maybe we would get a dog. We had already gotten into a fight about whether she would be an artist or a scientist. If she would want to go to Oxford or Cambridge.

"We had this whole life planned for her, and then just like that, our world crumbled. Me and Mary—we both fell apart. We couldn't bear to be around each other. It was just so hard. I—It was like before—when _you _died. There was nowhere to go—nothing I could do. I couldn't escape. I was so alone."

John can feel tears welling up, threatening to fall, so he clenches his eyes tightly, but all that does is bring back images of that day, and being here—in a hospital, a different hospital, but still—those familiar scents and sounds—it's too close to reliving that nightmare.

Sherlock waits until John has opened his eyes before saying, "I am so sorry, John—sorry about Emma, and sorry that I wasn't there."

"But you're here now."

"I am."

John takes a deep, shuddering breath, and with forced levity says, "Look at me, I'm a wreck. Please, distract me with something, anything."

Sherlock pauses, staring out into the distance contemplatively, before saying, "I was reckless—overconfident. I misjudged the situation. And I—I was wrong."

"What? I don't understand—"

"That's how this happened."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No—not now. But I maybe—we can, later."

John says, "I know—I know that emotional displays aren't really your area, and I didn't want to burden you after everything—but it's good to—I missed having you here, to talk to."

"As I remember, I did a lot of the talking."

"When you weren't being silent for days on end."

"Or that."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just glad to have you back."

"I wish I could say the same."

"A bit harsh, don't you think? Christ, if you didn't want me to—"

"Oh, no, don't be stupid."

"Ah, now that's even better."

"I'm happy—it's good—I don't _not_ want you here."

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's inarticulateness.

"Well with a sentiment like that..."

"I mean it, stay as long as you like. It has nothing to do with you. It's me—this body. I don't want to be here, like this."

"I know, Sherlock."

Without even thinking, John reaches out, and takes Sherlock's right hand in his, and instantly Sherlock holds on like the contact is a lifeline, gripping John's hand so hard it almost hurts.

But John doesn't pull away. All he says is, "I am here, Sherlock. And I'm not letting you leave me again."

Sherlock can only nod in response, because suddenly a lump has developed in his throat, and the ability to speak seems to have left him.

But John seems to understand, because he doesn't say a word, he just waits, and when Sherlock loosens his grip, John lets go too, but he doesn't get up. Instead, he reaches for the remote, turns on the telly, and says, "I'll just stay here for awhile longer, if that's okay with you."

Sherlock is so grateful to John for offering to stay, because it saves Sherlock from having to ask him to. Instead he says, casually, "Be my guest."

Sherlock doesn't bother trying to keep up with whatever vapid show John is watching, because almost immediately he finds himself overwhelmed by exhaustion, so taking comfort in the familiarity of John's presence, he allows his eyes to close, and as sleep prepares to swallow him up, the one thought echoing in his mind is—

_Finally, I'm home._

* * *

A/N: Finally some Sherlock/John scenes! I really hope you liked this chapter. There is definitely a good dose of angst, but I tried to balance it out with some bonding between the boys.

I have no idea when I'll get the next chapter out, but I haven't forgotten about that letter Sherlock wrote in Chapter 2, and as the story progresses, we'll find out more about what happened to Sherlock when he was on his mission. And of course, what would a Sherlock story be without crimes to solve?

Stay tuned! And please leave a review if you get a chance! I've really appreciated all the feedback I've gotten on the story so far :)


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